Master of the Scrolls

by Benjamin Ford

  Bulrushes dipped in tallow adorned the walls at regular intervals. Thrusting one into the fire, Thaumaturgia proceeded to light them all, spreading more light into the nooks and crannies, casting further flickering shadows into the numerous crevices of the immense cave, making the cave a little less threatening, and perhaps even a little more welcoming.

  On the farthest wall, another low outcrop of rock served as a rudimentary bed, its mattress made of straw and leaves. A rather crudely rendered hand woven blanket covered it, and though it did not look particularly comfortable to James, it had clearly done no harm to the Seer, whose personal artefacts littered the cave untidily.

  ‘Be seated, James Trevayne,’ Thaumaturgia softly murmured, indicating a space just in front of the fiery rock dais.

  James complied without question, and as he did so, the heat from the flames struck him, along with an even more pungent odour that burnt the hairs in his nostrils. He felt curiously light-headed, but was glad nonetheless that it replaced the other acrid smell.

  Thaumaturgia stood on the other side of the flames, muttering some kind of mystical incantation in a language James could not recognise, and he squinted through the flames in an effort to see exactly what she was doing. Thaumaturgia threw something into the flames, which crackled ominously. There followed a horrendous hissing, and then a blinding flash forced James to shut his eyes.

  When the flames returned to their normal luminance, James opened his eyes again, and emitted a gasp of shock.

  The flames glowed gently white, and suspended in the centre floated an apparition.

  ‘Isabella!’ he gasped, choking back tears.

  It was most definitely his beloved wife. She was even wearing the dress she had been wearing the night of her murder, though there was no sign of the wound, and the dress was free of blood, James noted with a degree of relief. Her eyes closed, white skin glowing with a kind of unhealthy deathlike tranquillity, Isabella seemed curiously more than a mere apparition. The flames surrounded her, not burning her flesh, not setting the dress alight, and though she floated, Isabella had substance.

  Rising to his knees, James could not take his eyes off the image Thaumaturgia had conjured up. ‘Is she… real?’ he whispered.

  The Seer smiled, stepping around the rock dais to stand beside him. ‘She be not real in the sense of being alive, but yes, her spirit be corporeal.’ She assisted James to his feet and they both faced the peaceful form within the flames. ‘An uncertain magic, Necromancy does not always work. Thou might say it doest depend upon the conjured spirit being willing to assist.’

  ‘You mean… Isabella wishes to help?’ James looked from the flames into the pink eyes of the Seer, and saw genuine compassion therein. He returned his gaze to his deceased wife’s image. ‘Isabella, can you hear me?’

  Isabella opened her eyes sharply, causing even Thaumaturgia to take a sharp intake of breath and a step backwards. Isabella’s eyes blazed with radiant red light. She smiled, and though she did not open her mouth, James and Thaumaturgia both heard her voice within their minds.

  I hear you, James.

  ‘Remarkable!’ The Seer was awed, for she had never before summoned a spirit of such clarity.

  Isabella fixed the Seer with her unwavering gaze.

  Why am I summoned to this place? You wish me to help James. How?

  ‘What canst thou tell us?’ intoned the Seer.

  What would you have me tell you?

  ‘Canst thou see anything that we cannot?’

  I see the future.

  ‘What dost thou see of our future?’

  The ghostly image of Isabella regarded the Seer with a peculiar familiarity. A look of recognition entered her eyes, but vanished as instantly as it appeared.

  I see nothing of your future, for I know you not, Thaumaturgia Anathemas. For my husband – I see all!

  As much as he would have loved to know how happy his future might be, James had no wish to know of any further impending unhappiness. He found his voice at last. ‘I implore you, my darling; tell me nothing of what my future holds. I have no desire for such knowledge.’

  As you wish, my husband, but I would have you know one thing, for the very future of our world hangs in the balance.

  ‘Very well, Isabella,’ sighed James, longing to ask his one single question, but more than willing to hear her out.

  Six months hence a woman shall come from future’s past. She shall have about her person something both old and new, and she shall be in mortal danger, for she shall dream of me, and when her dreams come true, the Warlock of Wicca Hill shall return. You must give unto her custody the parchments and offer her your own protection, until she is able to return whence she came.

  ‘Isabella, I understand not what you say,’ James said, before her spirit once more silenced him.

  Have no fear, my husband. When the time is nigh, you shall know what to do, and you shall understand a little more than I can here reveal.

  ‘Then I shall have to trust you on this matter, Isabella, but now I have one question for you, my love. I must know who murdered you!’

  Isabella’s pale face seemed to light up as her smile widened, almost as though she were about to enjoy divulging that particular piece of information.

  She never had the chance to speak.

  In a whirlwind of fury, manifesting itself in a maelstrom of leaves blown in on an angry howling gale that blasted down through the passage into the cave, extinguishing all the bulrushes but not affecting the central fire in any way, a wrathful Samuel Wylams burst in.

  ‘Be gone thou devil creature, conjured up to spread thy evil upon the world!’ he screamed at the top of his lungs. ‘I banish thee forever to another realm, to wander the mists of eternity, never to return to this place!’ He threw something into the flames at Isabella’s ethereal feet before either James or Thaumaturgia had a chance to move, and vanished as suddenly as he had appeared, taking the wailing howling winds with him.

  The air was so suddenly still and quiet that it hurt James’s ears, but the silence was short lived as a new wailing suddenly emanated from within the cave, from within the fire itself. The Seer moaned in despair and James turned to see what had caused her anguish. His breath caught in his throat.

  The flames had turned a violent green, entwining around Isabella’s writhing form. Her face contorted in agony, her body twisted to such a degree that it almost seemed as though her spine would snap in two. Her hands reached out towards the pair in a desperate plea for help. Then, with a lingering scream of absolute torment she vanished from view, and the flames returned to their white hue, then dissipated altogether, plunging the cave into total blackness.

  ‘What happened?’ gasped James in the darkness. ‘Where has she gone? What did that infernal creature do to my Isabella?’

  There was a sound of flints striking together, a few sparks, and then light illuminated Thaumaturgia’s ashen face as she relit one of the bulrushes. ‘I fear she has been dispatched unto another realm, James Trevayne.’ There was fear and sadness in the Seer’s voice. ‘She be already dead, fear not that she suffered a second time.’

  ‘But her screaming–’

  ‘She be but a wraith! The dead cannot suffer any further torment. Believe me when I tell thee she suffered no pain, no matter what thou might have witnessed.’

  ‘Can you–’

  Thaumaturgia held up her hand and interrupted James once more. ‘I sense what thou art about to ask of me, and the answer be no, I cannot bring her back.’

  ‘I would ask not that you bring her back to life, just bring back her spirit to respond to my question.’

  Sadly, the Seer shook her head. ‘I fear thou hast thy answer. Sawyl Gwilym silenced her for a single reason, and he has silenced her permanently, I fear. As I did tell thee, his incantation has cast her unto another realm. There be many such realms as our own; I know not into which he has dispatched her. The dead may be resurrected but one time to answer questions from beyond the gr
ave. I cannot bring her back again. Not now, not ever!’

  Late Spring 1537

  The late spring evening was distinctly chilly as the last rays of the sun, setting upon the horizon, bathed Neville Manor and the surrounding area in subtle shades of red, amber and gold.

  As the withering daylight continued to fade into dusk, within the parlour at the rear of the old Manor House, James lit the three candles on the candelabra that sat on his desk, nestled to one side of the fireplace. He moved across the room, through a door that led into the Great Hall, and past the gloomy stairs to check he had securely bolted the main door. He then untied the rope to lower the wooden chandelier suspended from the ceiling of the Great Hall, allowing it to come to rest gently in the middle of the great table at the centre of the room. He used the fire in one of the huge stone fireplaces that dominated either end of the Great Hall to light a fresh taper, which he then used to light all sixteen candles. Extinguishing the taper, he pulled on the rope to bring the chandelier back to its full height and tied it off. Burning candles so wastefully was not in his nature, but since his encounter with the Seer, he had developed a severe loathing for darkness.

  He entered the kitchen, where he prepared himself a posset to take away the chill, which lingered still on his chest, even now after six months. Returning to the parlour, he closed the door firmly behind him, crossing to the far side of the wood panelled room. Setting his goblet down beside the candelabra on his desk, James stood for a few moments before the raging log fire crackling remorselessly in the hearth, luxuriating in the radiant warmth that slowly filled the room. He then moved to the windows to pull closed the heavy drapes, shutting out the encroaching twilight, before he finally settled himself at his desk.

  He took a sip of his posset, wincing slightly at its tartness, and then opened the book of papers bound in animal hide to read the final entry in the journal. Picking up his quill, he dipped it into the pewter inkwell and began to write, scratching and scraping the nib against the paper.

  A sudden loud thud from the upper level of the house interrupted James’s writing. He paused, mid-sentence, his heart thumping in dread, but when no further sounds came from above, he shrugged. He was on edge, still recovering from his encounter with Thaumaturgia Anathemas and Sawyl Gwilym six months earlier: he had merely imagined the noise.

  Replenishing the ink on his quill, he set the nib once more to the page and continued writing.

  *

  Within his lair Sawyl Gwilym burst into life, fighting for breath, cursing in his native tongue as he sat up, realising that although what he had attempted had failed, it had almost succeeded. His spirit had left the confining restraints of his physical being, had floated in the ether until he had located the one he sought, and had almost manifested itself in her time. As dizziness engulfed him, he realised the incantations he had used had been blocked by powerful witchcraft.

  ‘Curse thee, Thaumaturgia Anathemas, thou interfering crone! Thou shalt not always succeed in blocking my powers!’

  The experience had left him drained of energy, much as every new exertion he put himself through, in any vain attempt to succeed in his quest, now left him drained. He lay back on the uncomfortable floor of his lair and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to begin working on a new course of action to retrieve the items stolen from him.

  *

  Screaming a silent scream of agony, her face twisted in fear, Gloria lost her balance and fell over backwards with a loud thud.

  Dizzy and disoriented, she picked herself up, eyes squeezed shut in a futile attempt to calm her swimming vision. She still felt sick to the pit of her stomach, and as another wave of nausea engulfed her, she staggered blindly forwards a few steps, felt a bed suddenly before her and sank gratefully onto its cushioning softness, taking deliberate deep breaths.

  For a few minutes she just sat there, struggling to get her breathing back under control, then she felt the dizziness abate and felt at last able to cautiously open her eyes. The blackness that had engulfed her vision dissipated, although her perception was still muddled. Kaleidoscopic colours danced pirouettes around her peripheral vision, but as she blinked slowly, the dazzling lights gradually diminished.

  Through the window, golden rays of sunset drifted across the horizon, bathing the room in subdued amber hues, and Gloria could see that the room in which she found herself was not her own.

  It was different yet still familiar.

  She twisted on the bed, and in so doing found she still clutched the manuscript to her breast, almost as though her very life depended upon her safeguarding it.

  This is real! I’m no longer in my own time. I’ve travelled back to Isabella’s time. But how is that possible?

  She stepped over to the window. The view had changed little: only the lack of roads, railway line and telegraph poles amid the vaguely familiar fields, hills and forest signified any tangible difference outside. She knew that the house was not the same. This was the original Neville Manor, razed to the ground by fire sometime in 1538, the site on which her own home would be built.

  If she was in Neville Manor, this was almost certainly Isabella’s bedchamber, a room chillingly recognisable from her dreams. This was the room in which she had witnessed Isabella’s savage murder, but was that event in the past, or yet to come? By a cruel twist of destiny, was she to witness the event again in reality?

  Gloria wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Even with recent events fresh in her mind, she did not want to believe that the impossible had happened. It was just too bizarre, the notion that she had somehow travelled through time.

  How was it possible?

  Despite the fear that pounded in her ears, Gloria realised she could not remain within Isabella’s bedchamber indefinitely. Hoping not to encounter the wrath of Samuel Wylams, she gently opened the door and treading softly, stepped out into the L-shaped passage beyond. There were five doors to her left, which obviously led to other bedchambers, and at the far end, a tiny window let in very little illumination. A further three doors lay to her right, beyond which she could see wooden stairs leading down to the lower level.

  Moving cautiously, hoping to avoid disturbing anyone else who might be inside the manor, she descended the stairs, bracing herself against the wall in lieu of a supporting balustrade, which the architect seemed to have forgotten. The steps were not too steep, but gave Gloria cause to believe that people in this time were much shorter in stature.

  On the lower level, she was relieved to find herself illuminated somewhat by a large chandelier of candles, suspended from the immense ceiling of the Great Hall. The huge room was impressive to behold. Two stories in height, the walls were oak panelled, with large stone fireplaces dominating both ends of the hall, radiating warmth from the fires that blazed therein. Opposite the stairs a huge arched door, resplendent with iron studs and bolts, stood firmly shut against the outside elements, and in the centre of the hall an enormous table, surrounded by benches and ornately carved chairs, was laid for a banquet, plates and goblets ready in place awaiting only the food and wine.

  Gloria walked all around the table, taking in her surroundings. Just beyond the stairs, an open doorway led to what looked like the kitchen, and beneath the stairs themselves a further door led elsewhere. Since this door was closed, Gloria had no idea what room lay beyond, though from descriptions in Isabella’s novels, she guessed it was the room referred to as ‘the parlour’.

  With a trembling hand, Gloria reached out and pushed the latch, hoping the door would not squeal on rusted hinges as she pushed it open. The door swung open smoothly without a single sound, and with a little trepidation, she entered the room.

  It was without a doubt quite the cosiest room Gloria had ever seen. As ever, the walls were wood panelled; a portrait of Isabella hung above the stone fireplace; a tapestry of a family crest – which Gloria instantly recognised as that which was engraved on the reverse of her gold locket – adorned one wall; small paintings hung upon one of
the other walls, while drapes concealed the windows along the final wall. There were several comfortable looking chairs strategically arranged around the room, allowing any occupants to talk amongst themselves while still facing the large open fireplace that was the room’s focal point. To one side of the fireplace stood a desk, and as she focused on the desk, Gloria realised she was not alone.

  The man sat hunched over the desk, illuminated by flickering candlelight, scratching at the paper before him with his quill. He clearly had not heard her enter, and hardly daring to breathe, Gloria stood observing him.

  James yawned as he set down his quill and read his last sentence. He rubbed his eyes, bending his head closer to the paper. His eyesight was less than perfect in the diminished level of light within the room.

  Suddenly he shivered as he felt eyes burning into him from behind. He knew somehow that they were the eyes of a stranger; a stranger to him, yet someone to whom he was known.

  He slowly turned in his chair, hoping not to startle whoever was standing behind him. Even in the evening gloom, he could see the figure of a woman, quite tall and slim, her raven hair falling softly in ringlets around her shoulders. He smiled at her, instantly reminded of Isabella’s ghostly prophecy of six months past. ‘So, you are come at last!’

  Gloria tried to speak, but whatever forces had silenced her screams still claimed her voice. She cleared her throat, but it was no use, her voice evaded her still.

  James arose, lifting his goblet as he moved towards her. ‘Here,’ he said softly, ‘take a sip, it may yet restore your voice.’

  Gloria took the goblet and sipped from it, choking on the strength of alcohol and tartness of whatever other ingredients comprised the drink. Still spluttering ferociously, she handed it back to James. ‘Thank you,’ she croaked after clearing her throat again. ‘Thank you, James Trevayne.’

  James glanced at her curiously. ‘I am known to you?’ Even though he had known she would, it was still a little disconcerting to have a complete stranger – an intruder – utter his name as though she had known him all her life.